Chapter I: SING of a man to some well known,

Who went and listed in the King’s Own,
For he was tall, and mighty grown,
Full six feet high of flesh and bone.
Ri lol, lol, lay, etc.

Now this man to battle did go,
The balls flew thick, and whistled so,
There was one came straight and gave him a blow,
And knocked off his arm above his elbow.

When the surgeon came to look at the wound
A noted thief lay on the ground,
Quite dead, but still he’d a perfect arm,
So he sawed it off while it was warm.

Now this arm he spliced to our hero’s stump,
And bound it fast, wasn’t he a trump?
And in a short time it got well,
As many of that brave corps can tell.

This man he turned out a thief,
And was discharged for stealing beef,
For with this cursed thief’s arm he got,
He could let nothing be too heavy or hot.

Then up to London he did repair,
To see if advice he could get there,
And all the way that he did jog,
The arm was at work, and found him in prog.

And when he got there he walked along,
And strove to bustle through the throng,
But the arm kept diving in every one’s pocket,
He tried all he could, but he couldn’t stop it.

It stole him watches, gold and rings,
And many other precious things,
And one night he found he’d wealth in store,
For Bandanna wipes, he had a score.

He robbed the Bank and Treasury,
Likewise a Poet at the play,
And, one night, ’tis really said,
He stole a glass eye from an old woman’s head.

Now this arm had such a propensity
For stealing, that it could not stay,
It robb’d a regiment of its baggage,
Likewise a tailor of all his cabbage.

Long time he carried on the trade,
Until he had a fortune made,
But for a crime he was afterwards taken,
And sent by the Judge to be hung up like bacon.

And when he came to the gallows tree,
With the Parson’s watch he did make free,
And as Jack Ketch was tying the knot,
He pick’d his pocket of all he’d got.

Now this man, he was buried, as you may suppose,
And after that the arm arose,
And join’d a body-snatching knave,
Who stole his master out of his grave.

_CORK LEG._

A TALE I tell now without any flam,
In Holland there dwelt Mynheer von Clam,
Who, every morning, said, I am
The richest merchant in Amsterdam.
Ri too ral, etc.

One day he had stuffed him as full as an egg,
When a poor relation came to beg,
But he kick’d him out without broaching a keg,
And in kicking him out he broke his leg.

A surgeon, the first in his vocation,
Came, and made a long oration,
He wanted a limb for anatomization,
So he finished the job by amputation.

Said Mynheer, said he, when he’d done his work,
By your sharp knife, I lost one fork,
But on two crutches I’ll never stalk,
For I’ll have a beautiful leg of cork.

An artist in Rotterdam ’twould seem,
Had made cork legs, his study and theme:
Each joint was as strong as an iron beam,
The springs a compound of clockwork and steam.

The leg was made and fitted tight,
Inspection the artist did invite,
The fine shape gave Mynheer delight,
And he fixed it on and screwed it tight.

He walked through squares, and past each shop,
Of speed he went to the utmost top,
Each step he took with a bound and a hop,
And he found his leg he could not stop.

Horror and fright were in his face,
The neighbours thought he was running a race;
He clung to a gas-post to stay his pace,
But the leg wouldn’t stop, but kept on the chace.

Then he call’d to some men with all his might,
“Oh! stop this leg or I’m murdered quite.”
But though they heard him aid invite,
He, in less than a minute was out of sight.

He ran o’er hill and dale, and plain,
To ease his weary bones he’d fain;
He threw himself down, but all in vain,
The leg got up, and was off again.

He walk’d of days and nights a score,
Of Europe he had made the Tour,
He died!--but though he was no more,
The leg walked on the same as before.

In Holland, sometimes it comes in sight,
A skeleton on a cork leg tight:
No cash did the artist’s skill requite,
He never was paid, and it served him right.

My tale I’ve told both plain and free,
Of the rummest merchant that ever could be,
Who never was buried, tho’ dead we see,
And I’ve been singing his L E G.[29]

_THE ONE HORSE CHAY._

MRS. BUBB was gay and free, fair, fat, and forty three,
And blooming as a Peony in buxom May,
The toast she long had been of Farringdon Within,
And she fill’d the better half of a one horse chay.

Mrs. Bubb said to her lord, “you can, Bubb, well afford,
Whate’er a Common Councilman in prudence may;
We’ve no brats to plague our lives, and the soap concern it thrives,
Let us take a trip to Brighton in the one horse chay.”

Mr. Bubb said to his wife, “now, I think upon’t, my life,
’Tis three weeks, at least, to next boiling day;
The dog days are set in, and London’s growing thin,
So I’ll order out old Nobbs, and the one horse chay.”

Now Nobbs, it must be told, was rather fat and old,
Its colour was white, and it had been gray,
He was round as a scot, and, when roundly whipt, would trot,
Full five miles an hour in a one horse chay.

When at Brighton they were hous’d, and had stuff’d and carous’d,
O’er a bowl of arrack Punch, Mr. Bubb did say,
“I’ve ascertained, my dear, the mode of dipping here,
From the ostler who is cleaning up my one horse chay.

You’re shut in a box, ill convenient as the stocks,
And eighteen pence each time are obliged to pay;
Court corruption here, says I, makes everything so high.
And I wish I had come without my one horse chay.”

“As I hope,” says she, “to thrive, ’tis flaying folks alive,
The king and these extortioners are leagued, I say;
’Tis encouraging of such, to go and pay so much,
So we’ll set them at defiance with our one horse chay.

Old Nobbs I’m sure and sartin, you may trust with gig or cart in,
He takes every matter in a very easy way;
He’ll stand like a post, while we dabble on the coast,
And return back, and dress in our one horse chay.

So out they drove, all dress’d, so gaily, in their best,
And finding in their rambles, a nice little bay;
They uncased at their leisure, paddled out at their pleasure,
And left everything behind in their one horse chay.

But while so snugly sure, that all things were secure,
They flounced about like porpoises, or whales at play;
Some young unlucky imps, who prowl’d about for shrimps,
Stole up to reconoitre the one horse chay.

Old Nobbs in quiet mood, was sleeping as he stood,
(He might possibly be dreaming of his corn, or hay):
Not a foot did he wag, as they whipt out every rag,
And gutted all the contents of the one horse chay.

When our pair were sous’d enough, and returning in their buff,
Oh, there was the vengeance, and Old Nick to pay;
Madam shrieked in consternation, Mr. Bubb he swore damnation.
To find the empty state of the one horse chay.

“Come, bundle in with me, we must squeeze for once,” says he,
“And manage this here business, as best we may,
We’ve no other way to choose, not a moment must we lose,
Or the tide will float us off in our one horse chay.”

So noses, sides, and knees, altogether they did squeeze,
And pack’d in little compass, they trotted it away;
As dismal as two dummies, head and hands stuck out like mummies,
From beneath the little apron of the one horse chay.

Mr. Bubb ge-upp’d in vain, and strove to jerk the rein,
Nobbs found he had his option to work or play;
So he wouldn’t mend his pace, though they fain would have run race,
To escape the merry gazers at the one horse chay.

Now, good people laugh your fill, and fancy if you will,
(For I’m fairly out of breath, and have had my say;)
The trouble and the rout, to wrap and get them out,
When they drove to their lodgings in their one horse chay.

_THE LITERARY DUSTMAN._

SOME folks may talk of sense, egad!
Vot holds a lofty station;
But, tho’ a dustman, I have had
A liberal _hedication_.
And tho’ I never vent to school,
Like many of my betters,
A turnpike man, vot varnt no fool,
He larnt me all my letters.

_Chorus._

They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear,
As Adam vos the fust man,
And by a co-in-side-ance queer,
Vy! I’m the fust of Dustmen!

At sartin schools they makes boys write,
Their Alphabets on sand, Sirs,
So I thought dust vould do as vell,
And larnt it out of hand, Sirs,
Took in the _Penny Magazine_,[30]
And _Johnson’s Dictionary_,
And all the Pe-ri-odi-cals,
To make me _literary_.

My dawning genus fust did peep,
Near Battle Bridge[31] ’tis plain, Sirs,
You recollect the cinder heap,
Vot stood in Gray’s Inn Lane, Sirs?[32]
’Twas there I studied pic-turesque,
Vile I my bread vos yearnin’,
And there inhalin’ the fresh breeze,[33]
_I sifted out my larnin_.

Then Mrs. Bell, ’twixt you and I,
Vould melt a heart of stone, Sirs,
To hear her, pussy’s wittals cry,
In such a barrow tone, Sirs.
My darters all take arter her,
In grace and figure easy,
They larns to sing, and as they’re fat,
I has ’em taught by _Grizi_.

Ve dines at four, and arter that,
I smokes a mild Awanna,
Or gives a lesson to the lad,
Upon the grand pianna:
Or vith the gals valk a _quod-rille_,
Or takes a cup of corf-fee,
Or, if I feels fatig’d or ill,
I lounges on the _sophy_.

Or arter dinner reads a page,
Of Valter Scott, or Byron,
Or Mr. _Shikspar_ on the stage,
Subjects none can tire on;
At night ve toddles to the play,
But not to gallery attic,
Drury Lane’s the time o’ day,
And quite _aristocratic_.

I means to buy my eldest son
A commission in the Lancers,
And make my darters, every one,
Accomplished Hopra dancers.
Great sculptors all conwarse with me,
And call my taste diwine, Sirs,
King George’s _statty_ at King’s Cross,[34]
Vos built from my design, Sirs.

And, ven I’m made a Member on,
For that I means to try, Sirs,
Mr. Gully fought his way,[35]
And verefore shouldn’t I, Sirs.
Yes, ven I sits in Parliment,
In old Sir Steven’s College,
I means to take, ’tis my intent,
The taxes off of knowledge.

_Chorus._

They call me Adam Bell, ’tis true,
’Cause Adam was the fust man,
I’m sure its very plain to you,
I’m a _litterary dustman_.

THE BILL STICKER.

I’M Sammy Slap, the Bill Sticker, and you must all agree, Sirs,
I stick to bus’ness like a trump, and bus’ness sticks to me, Sirs,
The low folks call me Plasterer, and they desarves a banging,
Becos, genteely speaking, vhy, my trade is Paper-Hanging.

_Chorus._

With my paste! paste! paste!
All the world is puffing, so I paste! paste! paste!

Round Nelson’s statty, Charing Cross, vhen any thing’s the go, Sirs,
You’ll always find me at my post, a sticking up the Posters,
I’ve hung Macready twelve feet high,--and though it may seem funny,
Day after day against the valls, I’ve plastered Mrs. Honey!

Now often, in the vay of trade, and I don’t care a farden,
Arter I have been veil paid to hang for Common Garden,
Old Drury Lane has called me in, with jealousy to cover ’em,
And sent me round vith their own bills, to go and plaster over ’em.

In search of houses, old and new, I’m always on the caper,
And werry kindly gives ’em all, a coat or two of paper;
I think I’ve kivered all the valls round London, though I preach it,
If they’d let me kiver old St. Paul’s, so help me Bob, I’d reach it.

I’m not like some in our trade,--they desarve their jackets laced, Sirs,
They stick up half their master’s bills, and sells
the rest for vaste, Sirs,
Now, honesty’s best policy, vith a good name to retire vith,
So vot I doesn’t use myself, my old gal lights the fire vith!

I’m proud to say there’s Helen Tree, the stage’s great adorner,
I’ve had the honour of posting her in every hole and corner,
And Helen Faucit--bless her eyes! ve use her pretty freely,
And paste’s Madam Vestris bang atop of Mr. Keeley!

Sometimes I’m jobbing for the Church, vith Charitable Sermons,
And sometimes for theatres, vith the English and the Germans;
To me, in course, no odds it is, as long as I’m a vinner,
Vhether I works for a Saint, or hangs up for a Sinner.

The paste I use, I makes myself, and I’ll stick to this, however,
That vhen my bills, I’ve put ’em up, they’ll face both vind and veather,
I comes the fancy work, though they’re up, mind, in a twinkle,
I never tucks the corners in, nor leaves a blessed wrinkle,

Then, surely, you vill all allow, I am a man of taste, Sirs,
I arn’t no Pastry-cook, although I deals in puffs and paste, Sirs,
Vhenever you may have a job, to show how I desarve you,
About the town through thick and thin, I’ll brush along to sarve you!

THINGS I DON’T LIKE TO SEE.

WHAT a queer set of creatures we are, I declare,
What one person likes, why another can’t bear,
It was always a plan when I went to school,
To like everything good, like the Lord Mayor’s fool.
Some like to look thin, some like to look fat,
Some like to see this, some like to see that,
But, if you’ll be silent, and listen to me,
I’ll just tell you the things that I don’t like to see.

_Chorus._

You may call me a quiz, you may call me a pry,
But I cannot bear things that look queer to the eye
If _you_ like to see them, it’s nothing to me,
I tell you there are things I don’t like to see.

Now I don’t like to see little boys with cigars,
They’re better at home with their pas and their mas
I don’t like to see folks in misery sunk,
And I don’t like to see a teetotaller drunk.
I don’t like to see ugly women use paint,
Nor a grey headed sinner pretend he’s a saint,
Nor a swell, in a dicky[36] tied over a rag,
Nor a fop with mustachios who’s not worth a mag.

I don’t like to see ladies picking their gums,
Nor a boy at sixteen always sucking his thumbs,
I don’t like to see women drink to excess,
Nor a girl in black stockings and white muslin dress,
I don’t like to see a coat fit like a sack,
Nor a man pinch his belly for the sake of his back,
I don’t like to see a man whopping his moke,
It shows that his brotherly feeling’s a joke.

I don’t like to see frosty weather in May,
Nor a man wear his church-going tile every day,
I don’t like to see people sulk at their meals,
Nor a girl with great taters stuck out at her heels;
I don’t like to see people shooting the moon,[37]
Nor a chap buttoned up on a hot afternoon,
I don’t like to see peelers drunk on their beat,
Nor young ladies bustles fall off in the street.

I don’t like to see people pay twice for once,
Nor a man about thirty, a thick-headed dunce;
I don’t like to see folks eat more than their whack,
Nor a swell with his hair just a yard down his back,
I don’t like to see yellow wipes round the throat,
Nor a man wipe his nose on the sleeve of his coat,
I don’t like to see a pretty girl pout,
Nor young ladies sending their rags up the spout.

I don’t like to see women drest Fal de ral,
Nor a boy about twelve, sticking up to a gal;
I don’t like to see parsons go to the play,
Nor a swell in white ducks, on a pouring wet day,
Now I don’t like to see sorrowful faces,
And I hope another night, you’ll here take your places;
For I don’t like to see empty streets, I declare,
And I think that my pocket agrees with me there.

THE BARREL OF PORK.

TWO Israelite brothers in New York once dwelt,
And, in all kind of Merchandize freely they dealt,
They were thought to be wealthy, between me and you,
And each brother was really as rich as a Jew.

No creditor e’er went away from their door,
Till death call’d on Moses to settle his score;
No mortal can ever evade such a call,
So Moses, he slept, Sirs, his last sleep of all.

Then Isaac, his brother, exclaimed, lucky elf,
All his goods and his monies belong to myself,
Ah! but stop, dere’s his will, I must just read it through,
To see what poor Moses would have me to do.

The Will it ran thus, when I shall cease to live,
All my cash, and my goods, to my brother I give,
Upon this condition, that hard he shall toil
To bury my body in real English Soil.

Isaac tried every Captain, but could not prevail,
For none would agree with the body to sail,
But, not to be baulked, he set quickly to work,
And embarked it at last as a barrel of pork.

Mo was cut up in pieces with chopper and knife,
He had never been cut up so much in his life,
Isaac wrote to his agent to tell him his plan,
And begged of him to bury the poor pickled man.

Some months after this, as he walked on the wharf,
He met with the Captain, a yellow fac’d dwarf,
Vell, goot Captain, he cried, looking steadfastly round
You delivered my barrel, I hope, safe and sound?

Said the Captain, Friend Isaac, I’m sorry to say,
That during our trip, we were near cast away,
When in sight of old England, we lay a sheer hulk,
As provisions were scarce, we were forced to break bulk.

Preak pulk! roar’d out Isaac, you’re worse than a Turk,
Put, surely, you ne’er proke my parrel of pork?
Indeed, but we did, cried the Captain, don’t huff,
For I’ll pay a good price, though ’twas devilish tough.

Ach! mein Gott! cried poor Isaac, as I am a sinner,
You have eaten my poor proder Moses for dinner;
Your brother! why zounds! then myself and my crew,
Have feasted three days on a piece of tough Jew.

But come, now, my friend Isaac, to finish this work,
I’ll pay you for your brother, as if he’d been pork;
No, no, replied Isaac, though we cheat one another,
Our law won’t permit us to sell our own prother.

In his purse back, the Captain was putting his gold,
Which Isaac, espying, cried, Goot Captain, hold,
Though I can’t touch the cash, for that proder of mine
You can pay me, you know, for the parrel and prine.

IN the “thirties” of this century, this was one of the most popular
of street songs, and is well worth reproducing among the humorous
ballads, as it is utterly unknown to the present generation.

_ALL ROUND MY HAT._

_Chorus._

ALL round my hat I vears a green villow,
All round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day,
If any one should ax it, the reason vy I vears it,
Tell them that my true love is far, far away.

’Twas going of my rounds in the streets I did meet her,
Oh, I thought she vas an hangel just come down from the sky,
(Spoken) _She’d a nice wegitable countenance, Turnip nose,
Redish cheeks, and Carroty hair_.
And I never heard a woice more louder and more sweeter,
Vhen she cried, buy my Primroses, my Primroses come buy.
(Spoken) _Here’s your fine Colliflowers!_
Oh, my love she vas fair, and my love she vas kind, too,
And cruel vas the judge vot my love had to try,
(Spoken) _Here’s your precious Turnips!_
For thieving vas a thing she never vas inclined to,
But he sent my love across the seas, far, far away.
(Spoken) _Here’s your hard hearted Cabbages!_

For seven long years my love and I are parted,
For seven long years, my love is bound to stay,
(Spoken) _’Tis a precious long time ’fore I does any trade to-day_.
Bad luck to the chap vot’d ever be false hearted,
Oh, I’d love my love for ever, though she’s far away.
(Spoken) _Here’s your nice heads of Sallary!_

There is some young men as is so precious deceitful,
A coaxing of the young girls they wish to lead astray,
(Spoken) _Here’s your Valnuts, crack ’em and try ’em,
a shillin’ a hundred!_
As soon as they deceive ’em, so cruelly-ly they leave ’em,
And they never sighs nor sorrows, ven they’re far avay.
(Spoken) _Do you want any Hinguns to day, marm?_

Oh, I bought my love a ring, on the werry day she started,
Vich I gave her as a token all to remember me,
(Spoken) _Bless her heyes_.
And vhen she does come back, oh, ve’ll never more be parted,
But ve’ll marry, and be happy, oh, for ever and a day.
(Spoken) _Here’s your fine spring Radishes!_

_HERE’S THE MAN A-COMING!_

IN Lunnon town each day, strange sayings will be springing,
But, if you list to me, a new one I’ll be singing,
As you go through the town, the people will be funning,
One cries out, “Put it down, here’s the man a-coming!”

’Twas only t’other day, as sure as I’m a sinner,
A leg of pork I bought, to have a slap up dinner;
When, half way down the street, a young scamp came by, running,
Says he “Guv’ner, drop that meat, here’s the man a-coming!”

Young married folks, I fear, to extremes often dash on,
They’re always in a fright, through studying the fashion;
Each day with fear and dread, the tradesmen they are shunning,
“Jem, get under the bed, here’s the tally man a-coming!”

There’s lots of ups and downs, and lots of rummy dodgings,
But I do it quite brown, in taking furnish’d lodgings:
I own I’m very poor, to pay there is no fun in,
So I always bolt the door, when I hear the landlord coming!

It’s pleasant, in this place, to see your smiling faces,
And, gents, too, I presume, you’re in your proper places;
Now, there’s one stands there so sly, I know he’s very cunning,
I say, “Mind what you’re at, here’s the man a-coming!”

_THE NOBBY HEAD OF HAIR._

YOU’VE called on me to sing a song, I’ll try what I can do,
I don’t say whether good or bad, for that I’ll leave to you,
The subject’s now before you, and I firmly do declare.
There’s no one in this street can sport such a nobby head of hair.

Perhaps you think I’m bragging, but the proof it is most clear,
If you only twig the company that stands around me here,
But something I’ll tell you,--now, pray don’t at me stare,--
There’s nothing half so handsome--as a nobby head of hair.

When an infant I a wonder was, but, upwards as I grew,
At school, I so surprized the boys, they in mobs around me flew;
But when a young man I had grown, my mother said, if I took care,
I soon should catch an heiress, with my nobby head of hair.

I go to all places of amusement, and everything that’s new,
Balls, Plays, White Conduit Gardens, and the Eagle Tavern too,
I feel prouder than Prince Albert, when the ladies see me there,
To hear the buz of admiration at my nobby head of hair.

Although my hair is elegant, it oft gets into scrapes,
At the Zoological, the other day, ’twas well pull’d by the apes;
And, in making my escape from them, I was grappl’d by a bear,
It fancied that I was it’s cub, by my nobby head of hair.

Not liking this brute treatment, from the gardens I did roam,
I caught a lady ogling me,--I ask’d to see her home,
Her husband, we met on the road, he asunder did us tear,
Then he dragg’d me through a horse pond, by my nobby head of hair.

He left me near dead with affright, and wet through to the skin,
A mob soon came around me--they did nought but jeer and grin,
A policeman took me in custody, and solemnly did swear,
I, a member of the swell mob was, by my nobby head of hair.

To the Magistrate, my innocence I pleaded, but in vain,
He said, to prison you must go, your guilt it is quite plain;
So to the treadmill I was sent,--but on the silent system there,
But what griev’d me most, they cut off all my nobby head of hair.

I thought it would have drove me mad, but it grew again so fast,
It put me in such spirits, that I soon forgot the past,
The Mill, it dragg’d down all my fat, I look’d quite lean and spare,
My friends, they knew me only, by my nobby head of hair.

But now that I am free again, I’m happy as a king,
That’s one reason why to night, you see, I have come here to sing;
But this is a fact you can’t deny, it is a thing most rare--
To see a handsome chap like me, with such a nobby head of hair.

_MISS BAILEY’S GHOST._

A CAPTAIN bold, in Halifax, who dwelt in country quarters,
Seduced a maid, who hang’d herself, one morning, in her garters,
His wicked conscience smited him, he lost his stomach daily,
He took to drinking ratafee, and thought upon Miss Bailey.
Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey.

One night betimes he went to rest, for he had caught a fever,
Says he, “I am a handsome man, but I’m a gay deceiver;”
His candle just at twelve o’clock began to burn quite palely,
A ghost stepp’d up to his bed side, and said, “behold Miss Bailey.”
Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey.

“Avaunt, Miss Bailey” then he cried, “your face looks white and mealy,”
“Dear Captain Smith,” the ghost replied, “you’ve used me ungenteely;
The Crowner’s Quest goes hard with me, because I’ve acted frailly,
And parson Biggs won’t bury me, though I am dead Miss Bailey.”
Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey.

“Dear Corpse,” said he, “since you and I accounts must once for all close,
I’ve really got a one pound note in my regimental small clothes;
“’Twill bribe the sexton for your grave,”--The ghost then vanish’d gaily,
Crying, “Bless you, wicked Captain Smith, remember poor Miss Bailey.”
Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey.

_HUMPHREY DUGGINS._

OLD Humphrey Duggins, he wanted a wife,
Resolving to lead a sober life;
A batchelor, he would have been a great rake,
So courting he went, for conscience sake.

The old Widow Warmpurse, she wanted a spouse,
No children had she, but she had a large house,
Six children had Duggins, though not very small,
So, thinks he, the large house will just hold them all.

So to court the widow, old Duggins began,
Says she, I’ve been told you’re a sad naughty man,
He replied, it ain’t true, and the widow knew not
That he’d one piccaninny, much less a whole lot.

When he’d married the widow, my dear, says he,
No doubt we shall have a large family,
I hope we shall, she then to him did say,
So the six little Duggins came home the next day.

The three Master Duggins, they made her a bow,
The three little Misses, they curtsied, How!
Says she, what means this? Why, said he, my old lass,
It’s only my little ones come home from grass.

You wicked deceiver, quoth she, I am dish’d;
Says he, for a great many children you wish’d,
And, as no one is certain their wishes to have,
I thought you might fancy a few ready made.

IT is the privilege of the aged to carp at modern doings, and to
contrast them with things as they were in their youth. Farming, as
it used to be carried out, could never pay now. In war time the
farmers did well; in January, 1801, wheat was 137s. per quarter,
and rose higher. But according to the Earl of Warwick, in a speech
in Parliament (November 14, 1800), they did not benefit much by
it--it was _light come, light go_, with them. “He wondered not at
the extravagant style of living of some of the farmers, who could
afford to play guinea whist, and were not contented with drinking
wine, but even mixed brandy with it.” The small farms, with their
little fields, cut even smaller by the huge hedges and ditches,
soil undrained, no machinery, the earth merely scratched by the
plough, could never grow wheat to sell at 32_s._ or 34_s._ per
quarter, or to rear beef and mutton, to compete against imported
meat.

_THE HONEST PLOUGHMAN, OR 90 YEARS AGO._

COME all you jolly husbandmen, and listen to my song,
I’ll relate the life of a ploughman, and not detain you long,
My father was a farmer, who banished grief and woe,
My mother was a dairy maid--that’s 90 years ago.

My father had a little farm, a harrow and a plough,
My mother had some pigs and fowls, a pony and a cow,
They didn’t hire a servant, but they both their work did do,
As I have heard my parents say, just 90 years ago.

The rent that time was not so high by far, as I will pen,
For now one family’s nearly twice as big as then were ten,
When I was born, my father used to harrow, plough and sow,
I think I’ve heard my mother say, ’twas 90 years ago.

To drive the plough my father did a boy engage,
Until that I had just arrived to seven years of age,
So then he did no servant want, my mother milk’d the cow,
And with the lark, I rose each morn, to go and drive the plough.

The farmer’s wives in every way themselves the cows did milk,
They did not wear the dandy veils, and gowns made out of silk,
They did not ride blood horses, like the farmer’s wives do now,
The daughters went a milking and the sons went to the plough.

When I was fifteen years of age, I used to thrash and sow,
Harrowed, ploughed, and in harvest time I used to reap and mow,
When I was 20 years of age, I could manage well the farm,
Could hedge and ditch, or plough, and sow, or thrash within the barn.

At length when I was 25, I took myself a wife,
Compelled to leave my father’s house as I had changed my life,
The younger children, in my place, my father’s work would do,
Then daily, as an husbandman, to labour I did go.

My wife and me, though very poor, could keep a pig and cow,
She could sit and spin and knit, and I the land could plough.
There nothing was upon a farm, at all, but I could do,
I find things very different now,--that’s many years ago.

We lived along contented, and banished pain and grief,
We had not occasion then to ask for parish relief,
But now my hairs are grown quite grey, I cannot well engage,
To work as I had used to do, I’m 90 years of age.

But now that I am feeble grown, and poverty do feel,
If, for relief I go, they shove me into a Whig Bastile,[38]
Where I may hang my hoary head, and pine in grief and woe,
My father did not see the like, just 90 years ago.

When a man has laboured all his life to do his country good,
He’s respected just as much when old, as a donkey in a wood,
His days are gone and past, and he may weep in grief and woe,
The times are very different now to 90 years ago.

Now I am 90 years of age, if for relief I do apply,
I must go into a Whig Bastile to end my days and die,
I can no longer labour, as I no longer have,
Then, at the last, just like a dog, they lay me in my grave.

_THE NEW FASHIONED FARMER._

GOOD people all, attend awhile,
Whilst I relate a story,
How the farmers in old England,
Did once support their glory.
When masters liv’d as masters ought,
And happy in their station,
Until at length, their stinking pride,
Has ruined all the Nation.

_Chorus._

Let’s pray that hungry bellies may
Be fill’d when they are empty,
And where a servant gets ten pounds,
I wish he may get twenty.

A good old fashioned long grey coat,
The farmers us’d to wear, Sir,
And on old Dobbin they would ride,
To market or to fair, Sir,
But now fine geldings they must mount,
To join all in the chace, Sir,
Dressed up like any lord or ’squire,
Before their landlord’s face, Sir.

In former times, both plain and neat,
They’d go to Church on Sunday,
And then to harrow, plow, or sow,
They’d go upon a Monday.
But now, instead of the plough tail,
O’er hedges they are jumping,
And instead of sowing of their corn,
Their delight is in fox hunting.

The good old dames, God bless their names,
Were seldom in a passion,
But strove to keep a right good house,
And never thought on fashion.
With fine brown beer their hearts to cheer,
But now they must drink swipes, Sir,
It’s enough to make a strong man weak,
And give him the dry gripes, Sir.

The farmer’s daughters used to work
All at the spinning wheel, Sir,
But, now, such furniture as that,
Is thought quite ungenteel, Sir.
Their fingers they’re afraid to spoil,
With any such kind of sport, Sir,
Sooner than handle mop or broom,
They’d handle a piano-forte, Sir.

Their dress was always plain and warm,
When in their holiday clothes, Sir,
Besides, they had such handsome cheeks,
As red as any rose, Sir.
But now, they’re frilled and furbelowed,
Just like a dancing monkey,
Their bonnets and their great black veils,
Would almost fright a donkey.

When wheat it was a guinea a strike,[39]
The farmers bore the sway, Sir,
Now with their landlords they will ride,
Upon each hunting day, Sir.
Besides, their daughters they must join
The ladies at the Ball, Sir,
The landlords say, we’ll double their rents,
And then their pride must fall, Sir,

I hope no one will think amiss,
At what has here been penned, Sir,
But let us hope that these hard times
May speedily amend, Sir.
It’s all through such confounded pride,
Has brought them to reflection,
It makes poor servants’ wages low,
And keeps them in subjection.

_PRESENT TIMES, OR EIGHT SHILLINGS A WEEK._[40]

COME all you bold Britons, where’er you may be,
I pray give attention, and listen to me,
There once was good times, but they’re gone by complete,
For a poor man lives now on Eight Shillings a week.

Such times in old England there never was seen,
As the present ones now; but much better have been,
A poor man’s condemned, and looked on as a thief,
And compelled to work hard on Eight Shillings a week.

Our venerable fathers remember the year,
When a man earned three shillings a day, and his beer.
He then could live well, keep his family neat,
But now he must work for Eight Shillings a week.

The Nobs of “Old England,” of shameful renown,
Are striving to crush a poor man to the ground,
They’ll beat down their wages and starve them complete,
And make them work hard for Eight Shillings a week.

A poor man to labour (believe me ’tis so),
To maintain his family is willing to go
Either hedging, or ditching, to plough, or to reap,
But how does he live on Eight Shillings a week.

In the reign of old George, as you all understand,
Here then was contentment throughout the whole land,
Each poor man could live, and get plenty to eat,
But now he must pine on Eight Shillings a week.

So now to conclude and finish my song,
May the times be much better, before it is long,
May every labourer be able to keep
His children and wife on Twelve Shillings a week.

THERE are very few Statute, or hiring, fairs now in existence, and
perhaps it is as well, as a great deal of drunkenness and
immorality used to occur at these meetings. The servants stood in
groups according to their callings, each bearing some token of
their employment; for instance, the carters carried a piece of
whipcord. Employers of labour came and personally interviewed them,
wages were agreed upon, and the hiring was for a year certain.

_JIG, JIG, TO THE HIRINGS._

YOU Farmers, Servants, far and near,
Who do reside in ---- land
Unto my song attend a while,
These verses will cause you to smile.
Now ---- land hirings are come again,
The lasses gay and smart young men,
Drest in their best, all jig away
To see the fun on the hiring day.

When at the hirings they do arrive,
Like bees a swarming in a hive,
The servants they come flocking in,
Until the hirings do begin.
There’s pretty Sally, and pug nosed Poll,
There’s slender Kate and dumpy Doll,
With farmer’s daughters short and long,
To ---- land hirings jig, jig along.

They now roll in, both thick and thin,
Jack, Bob, Harry, Tom, and Jim,
Waggoner Dick with his white smock,
He swears he’ll smash his Sally’s clock.
Ploughboy Jim, with whip so long,
Among the lasses soon does throng,
He finds his dear, and makes her sup,
And afterwards the dance keeps up.

Masters and Mistresses enquire.
Of Servants, if they want to hire,
And when good servants they have found,
They try and run the wages down.
They offer such small wages, oh dear!
Will scarce serve you throughout the year,
They want servants, the greedy elves,
To work for nought, and find themselves.

Says John, I ask twenty pound a year,
I’ll take no less I do declare,
There is plenty of work, they say,
For years to come, on the Railway.
So let each servant lad, and man,
Stand up for wages when you can,
For wages they must rise I’m told,
Or else they’ll go to the Railroad.

Then John and Moll walk to and fro,
They take a peep into the show,
John buys her nuts, and cakes, and wine,
With a few yards of ribbon fine.
Then off they go to the Dancing room,
The fiddler he strikes up a tune,
And then, good Lord, what noise and rout,
With John and Molly’s jigging about.

With fiddling, dancing, rum and beer,
Both John and Moll feel rather queer,
John squeezes her hand and looks so sly,
Whilst Molly winks her funny eye.
Then towards home they cross the hill,
They soon forget the Poor Law Bill,
And love plays up a rattling,
While John and Molly jig it again.

So Maids, don’t jig, jig, lest you rue,
Lads, to the lasses be kind and true,
And when jig, jig you wish to play,
To the Hirings jig, jig away.
There, if you give the Parson his fee,
You’ll find quite ready he will be,
To hire you both so neat and trig,
Then send you home to jig, jig.

_COUNTRY STATUTES._

COME all you lads of high renown, and listen to my story,
For now the time is coming on, that is to all your glory,
For Jumping Nan is coming here, the Statutes to admire,
To see the lads and lasses standing all, a-waiting for their hire.

_Chorus._

Lo, to Hiring we have come, all for to look for places,
If the master and we can agree, and he will give good wages.

The master that a servant wants, will stand now in a wonder,
You all must ask ten pounds a year, and none of you go under,
It’s you then, must do all the work, and what they do require,
So now, stand up for wages, lads, before that you do hire.

There’s Rolling Jane the hemp will spin, and Sal will mind the dairy,
And John will kiss his mistress when his master is a-weary,
There’s Tom will reap and mow, they’ll thrash, and never tire,
They’ll load the cart, and do their part, so they’re the lads to hire.

There’s Carter John, with whip so long, rises early in the morning,
He’s always ready at his work, before the day is dawning,
Hey up, gee wo, the plough must go, till he is almost weary,
But a jug of ale, both stout and stale, it will soon make him merry.

There’s Poll so red, will made the bread, likewise good cheese and butter,
And Bet so thick, will tread the rick, she’s never in a flutter:
She’ll feed the sows and milk the cows, and do what she is able,
Although she’s mean, she’s neat and clean, when waiting at the table.

There’s black eyed Fan, with the frying pan, will cook
your eggs and bacon,
With beef and mutton, roast and boiled, if I am not mistaken,
She’ll made the puddings fat and good, all ready for your dinner,
But, if you grumble when she’s done, she’ll cure you with the skimmer.

The farmer’s wife so full of pride, must have a lady’s maid, Sir,
All for to dress and curl her hair, and powder it beside, Sir,
But the girl of heart, to dress so smart, they call her charming Nancy,
She can wink and blink in such a style, she’s all the young men’s fancy.

And when the mop it is all o’er, you that are young and hearty,
Must take your girl all in your hand, and join a drinking party.
But, when you are returning home, enjoying sweet embraces,
With love and honour spend the night, at statutes, fairs, or races.

So all you pretty lasses gay, I do not wish to shame you,
Nor yet do I intend at all, by any means to blame you;
But I doubt next year you’ll want no places,
If you care for yourselves going home from the races.

_THE BOLD POACHER._

WHEN I was bound ’prentice in fair Lincolnshire,
I served my master for nearly seven year,
Till I got up to poaching, as quickly you shall hear,
It was my delight in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As I and my bold comrades were setting of a snare,
The game keeper was watching us, for him we did not care,
For I could wrestle, or fight, my boys, or jump over any where,
It was my delight in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

As I and my bold comrades were setting four or five,
And going to take them up again, we found a hare alive,
I have her in the bag, my boys, and through the woods we steer,
It was my delight in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

I hung her over my shoulder, and rambled into the town,
I callèd at a neighbour’s house, and sold her for a crown,
I sold her for a crown my boys, but I’ll not tell you where,
It was my delight, in a shiny night, in the season of the year.

Here’s to every poacher that lives in Lincolnshire,
And here’s to every gamekeeper, that wants to buy a hare,
But not every keeper that wants to keep his deer,
It was my delight of a shiny night, in the season of the year.

THIS ballad shows that there are two sides to a poacher’s life.

_DEATH OF POOR BILL BROWN._

YE Gentlemen both great and small,
Game keepers, poachers, sportsmen, all,
Pray listen to my simple clown,[41]
I’ll sing you the death of poor Bill Brown,
I’ll sing you the death of poor Bill Brown.

One stormy night as you shall hear,
(It was in the season of the year,)
We went to the woods to catch a fat buck,
But ah! that night we had bad luck,
Bill Brown was shot and his dog was stuck.

When we got to the wood our sport begun,
I saw the Game keeper present his gun,
I call’d on Bill to climb the gate,
To fetch the fat buck, but it was too late,
For there he met his untimely fate.

Then, dying he lay upon the ground,
And in that state poor Bill I found,
And when he saw me, he did cry,
“Revenge my death,” I will, said I,
For many a hare we’ve caught hard by.

I knew the man that shot Bill Brown,
I knew him well and could tell his clown,
And to describe it in my song,
Black jacket he had, and red waistcoat on,
I knew him well, and they called him Tom.

I dressed myself up, next night in time,
I got to the wood and the clock struck nine,
The reason was, and I’ll tell you why,
To find the game keeper I’ll go try,
Who shot my friend, and he shall die.

I ranged the wood all over and then
I looked at my watch, and it was just ten,
I heard a footstep upon the green,
And I laid down for fear of being seen,
For I plainly saw that it was Tom Green.

Then I took my piece fast in my hand,
Resolved to fire if Tom did stand;
Tom heard the noise, and turn’d him round,
I fired, and brought him down to the ground,
My hand gave him his deep death wound.

Now, revenge, you see, my hopes have crown’d,
I’ve shot the man that shot Bill Brown,
Poor Bill no more these eyes will see,
Farewell, dear friend, farewell to thee,
For I’ve crowned his hopes and his memory.

_THE JOLLY ANGLER._

O, THE jolly angler’s life is the best of any,
It is a fancy void of strife, and will be lov’d of many,
It is no crime at any time, but a harmless pleasure,
It is a bliss of lawfulness; it is a joy, ’tis not a toy;
It is a skill that breeds no ill; it is sweet and complete;
Adornation to our mind; it’s witty, pretty, decent, pleasant;
Pastime we shall sweetly find, if the weather prove but kind,
We will have our pleasure.

In the morning up we start, as soon as daylight’s peeping,
We take a cup to cheer the heart, and leave the sluggard sleeping,
Forth we walk, with merry talk to some pleasant river,
Near the Thames’ silver streams; there we stand, rod in hand,
Fixing right, for a bite; but if the bait the fish allure,
They come bobbing, nipping, biting, skipping,
Dangling on our hooks secure; with such a pastime sweet and pure.
We could fish for ever.

Various objects to be seen, O, what pleasure there is,
Can there be a purer joy--if so--tell me, where is?
Birds they sing, and flowers spring; full of delectation,
A whistling breeze runs through the trees, there we meet meadows sweet;
Flowers sweet, the mind unbent; here is scent, of sweet content.
Living, giving, easing, pleasing; by those sweet refreshing bowers,
Vitals from those herbs and flowers, rais’d up by those falling showers,
For man’s recreation.

As thro’ the shady forest, where echo there is sounding,
Hounds and huntsmen roving there, in their sports abounding;
Hideous noise, in all their joys, not to be admired;
Whilst we fish, to gain a dish; with a hook, in the brook,
Watch our float, spare our throat, while they’re sult’ring to and fro;
Twivy, Twivy, Twivy, hark the horn does sweetly blow,
Hounds and huntsmen all in a row,
With their pastime tired.

We have gentles in our horns, we have worms and paste, too;
Landing net and floats we have, with hooks of all sizes;
We have line and choice of twine, fitting for the angle;
If they don’t show, away we’ll go, seeking out chub or trout,
Eel or pike, or the like, dace or bleak, these we seek,
Barbel, jack, and many more, gudgeons, perches, tenches, roaches;
Here’s the jolly angler’s store; we have choice of fish galore,
We will have our angle.

If the sun’s excessive heat, should our bodies sulter,
To some house or hedge retreat, for some friendly shelter:
But, if we spy a shower nigh, or the day uncertain,
Then we flee beneath a tree; then we eat our victuals sweet,
Take a coke, smoke and soak; then again, to the same,
But, if we can no longer stay, we come laughing, joking,
quaffing, smoking,
So delightful all the way; thus we do conclude the day,
With a cup at parting.

_THE HUMOURS OF THE RACES._

GOOD people all draw near, and listen to my ditty,
A song to you I’ll sing, that is both short and pretty,
There’s countrymen and maids, with their sweet and ruddy faces,
Link’d in each other’s arms,--they’re coming to the races.

Here’s Coaches and Tandems, there’s Gigs and Carts likewise, Sir,
And ladies grandly dress’d, with dandy cap beside, Sir,
They have a cabbage net to cover o’er their faces
With a footman at their heels, they’re coming to the races.
Now look at the Grand Stand, where the gentlemen are sitting,
Whilst the horses run the course, hundreds of them are betting,
Some win a handsome sum, and others pull wry faces,

As they are going home, wish they’d never seen the races.
The time it being arrived, the bell it is rung loudly,
The horses are well bred, they walk the course so proudly,
The gentlemen in red, so gallant in their places,
The course for to keep clear always at the races.

The horses then do start, O! what a row and pother,
They push and shove away, one tumbling o’er another,
Here’s girls upon the course, with their fine rings and lockets,
But while the horses run, I’d have you mind your pockets.

There’s spruce Eliza Long, and Polly, Kate, and Sukey,
Besides, there’s Molly Ruff, remarkable for beauty;
There’s pretty lasses gay, who are fond of men’s embraces,
But if you don’t take care, they’ll make you curse the races.

And when the heat is o’er, into the booth they’ll toddle,
They drink of gin and ale, till it affects their noddle:
While your money lasts, they’ll use you very civil,
But when your blunt is gone, they’ll kick you like the devil.

The next unto the shows, the people are advancing,
The show folks on the stage like puppets are a dancing,
The showman bawls aloud, “Come in and take your places,
I’ll show you Punch and Nan, now you’ve come to the Races.”

Here’s wheelbarrows with nuts, here’s pies and tarts likewise, Sir,
All for to please your taste, if you’re inclin’d to buy, Sir;
Here’s the best of beef and ham, and muffins too, and crumpets,
Lark whistles, rattles, drums, and also wooden trumpets.

When the races they are o’er, and money growing short, Sir,
There’s many a luckless wight may with reason curse the sport, Sir,
The finest race you’ll see, when the horse races are over,
Will be unto the house where three balls the door hangs over.

_THE BONNY GREY._

COME, you cock Merchants, far and near,
Did you hear of a cock battle happened near,
Those Liverpool lads, I’ve heard them say,
The Charcoal Black, and the Bonny Grey.

We went to Jim Ward’s and call’d for a pot,
Where this cock battle was fought;
Twenty guineas a side these cocks did play,
The Charcoal Black, and the Bonny Grey.

Then Lord Derby came swaggering down,
Bet ten guineas to a crown,
If this Charcoal Black it gets fair play,
He will rip the wings of your Bonny Grey.

O, these two cocks, they came to the sod,
Cries the Liverpool lads, how now? what odds?
The odds the Prescot lads did say,
The Charcoal Black and the Bonny Grey.

The cock battle it was fought,
Whilst the Charcoal he lay dead at last,
The Liverpool lads gave a loud huzza,
And carried away the Bonny Grey.

_THE KING AND WEST COUNTRYMAN._

THERE was an old chap in the west country,
A flaw in his lease the lawyers had found,
It were all about felling of five oak trees,
And building some houses upon his own ground.

_Chorus._

Ri tooral, looral, looral, looral, Ri tum looral i, do.

Now this owd chap to Lunnon did go,
To tell the King a part of his woe,
Likewise to unbosom to him his grief,
In hopes King George would give him relief.

When this owd chap to Lunnun had come,
He found the King to Windsor had gone,
But, if he’d a known he’d not been at home,
He dom’d his buttons, if ever he’d come.

Now this owd chap to Windsor did stump,
But the gates were barred, and all secure,
So he knocked and thumped with his oaken clump,
There’s room for I within, to be sure.

Pray, Mr. Noble, show I the King,
What’s, that the King, as I see there?
If that chap’s a king, I vow and declare,
I’ve seen finer Kings at Bartlemy Fair.

Pray, Mr. King, how do you do?
I’ze gotten for you, a bit of a job,
Which, if you’ll have the kindness to do,
I’ve got a summut for you in my fob.

The King, he took the lease in hand,
To sign it he was likewise willing,
And the farmer, to make him some little amend,
He lugged out his bag, and gi’ed him a shilling.

The King, to carry on the joke,
Ordered ten pounds to be paid down,
Likewise ten shillings, and half a crown,
For years and years after for ever more.

The farmer, he stared and looked very funny,
But to take up the cash, he was likewise willing
But, if he’d a known, he’d half so much brass,
He dommed his wig if he’d gi’en him the shilling.

_HODGE IN LONDON._

JOHN HODGE bid his dad and his mammy good bye,
And he set off for London his fortune to try,
For he, by a great many folks had been told,
That in London the streets were all paved with gold.

But, when he came there, to his great surprise,
Like a duck against thunder, he rolled up his eyes;
He search’d all around, but the devil a one,
Could poor Johnny find, but was paved with stone.

Now, in London, says John, I have heard people say,
That your pockets they’ll pick in the midst of the day!
I’ll take pretty good care that they shall not pick mine,
If they do, not a penny in them will they find.

One guinea I’ve got, and of that will take care,
I’ll put it in my mouth, for they can’t find it there,
So deceived was poor Johnny, this caution he took,
For a boy overheard every word that he spoke.

Now the boy being determined the guinea to gain,
Tumbled down on the stones, and then called out amain,
Stop that thief, said the boy, that clod hopping ninny,
He has knocked me down, and ran off with my guinea.

When the people they heard the poor boy so take on,
They scampered away, and soon overtook John,
What mean you? you rascal, they all then did cry,
You’ve robb’d the boy, though the theft you deny.

Then John he stood trembling and quaking for fear,
Crying, I ne’er touched the boy, nor his guinea, I swear,
But the boy coming up, still a lie he bawled out,
For you know that my guinea, you’ve got in your mouth.

Then they opened John’s mouth, where the guinea was found,
Which was presently shewn to the people all round,
’Twas given to the boy, who off with it did run,
And he laugh’d for to think how the Bumpkin he’d done.

Then John, he stood roaring, just like a great calf,
Whilst those standing by, did heartily laugh,
The people all thought that the boy he did rob,
Says John, from this time I’ll ne’er do such a job.

ALTHOUGH the Mutiny of the Fleet at the Nore does not properly
belong to this century, yet it so nearly approached it (1797), and
was of such national importance for the time being, that I venture
to insert a ballad respecting it. The Navy was in a bad state. Many
men had been impressed; they were badly paid and badly fed; and
their punishment, for the slightest infraction of discipline, was
fearful, 50 to 500 lashes, according to the temper of the captain,
being no infrequent punishment for very venial offences. Early in
the year the men sent in very respectful memorials to Lord Howe,
telling him of their grievances. No notice was taken of it, and the
men, probably ignorantly, committed a gross breach of discipline in
combining together and opening communications with each other
throughout the Fleet. They plotted to seize the ships and expel the
officers; but it became known, and the Admiral gave orders to sail
to sea. The men refused to do so, until their grievances had been
looked into and redressed. This was promised and granted, but still
the men were suspicious that faith would not be kept with them, and
they set some of their officers ashore. Lord Howe, however, went to
the Fleet at St. Helen’s, and showed them an Act of Parliament,
granting their demands, and this pacified that portion of the
Fleet.

But at the Nore there was open mutiny; they blockaded the entrance
to the Thames, and fired on several ships entering or departing.
This could not be endured, and the Admiralty removed the buoys.
Provisions ran short, and some men-of-war were sent alongside, with
orders to sink those ships that did not surrender. They gave in one
by one, and the chief ringleader, Richard Parker (a man of some
education), and several others were hanged; but they were long
regarded as martyrs. Parker was buried in the churchyard of St.
Mary Matfelon, Whitechapel.

_DEATH OF PARKER._

YE Gods above, protect the widow,
And with pity look down on me,
Help me, help me out of trouble,
And out of all calamity.
For by the death of my brave Parker,
Fortune hath prov’d to me unkind;
Tho’ doom’d by law, he was to suffer,
I can’t erase him from my mind.

Parker he was my lawful husband,
My bosom friend I lov’d so dear;
At the awful moment he was going to suffer
I was not allowed to come near.
In vain I strove, in vain I asked,
Three times, o’er and o’er again,
But they replied, you must be denied,
You must return on shore again.

First time I attempted my love to see,
I was obliged to go away,
Oppress’d with grief, and broken hearted,
To think that they should me stay.
I thought I saw the yellow flag flying,
A signal for my husband to die,
A gun was fired, as they required,
As the time it did draw nigh.

The boatswain did his best endeavour,
To get me on shore without delay,
When I stood trembling and confounded,
Ready to take his body away.
Though his trembling hand did wave,
As a signal of farewell,
The grief I suffered at this moment,
No heart can paint, or tongue can tell.

My fleeting spirit I thought would follow,
The soul of him I love so dear,
No friend, nor neighbour would come nigh me,
For to ease me of my grief and care.
Every moment I thought an hour,
Till the law its course had run,
I wish’d to finish the doleful task,
His imprudence had begun.

In the dead of night, ’tis silent,
And all the world are fast asleep,
My trembling heart that knows no comfort,
O’er his grave does often weep,
Each lingering minute that passes,
Brings me nearer to the shore,
When we shall shine in endless glory,
Never to be parted more.

_THE BATTLE OF BOULOGNE._

ON the second day of August, eighteen hundred and one,
We sail’d with Lord Nelson to the port of Boulogne,
For to cut out their shipping, which was all in vain,
For to our misfortune, they were all moored and chained.

Our boats being well mann’d, at eleven at night,
For to cut away their shipping, except they would fight,
But the grape from their batteries so smartly did play,
Nine hundred brave seamen killed and wounded there lay.

We hoisted our colours, and so boldly them did spread
With a British flag flying at our royal mast-head,
For the honour of England, we will always maintain,
While bold British seamen plough the watery main.

Exposed to the fire of the enemy she lay,
While ninety bright pieces of cannon did play,
Where many a brave seaman then lay in his gore,
And the shot from their batteries so smartly did pour.

Our noble commander, with heart full of grief,
Used every endeavour to afford us relief,
No ship could assist us, as well you may know,
In this wounded condition, we were toss’d to and fro.

And you who relieve us the Lord will you bless,
For relieving poor sailors in time of distress,
May the Lord put an end to all cruel wars,
And send peace and contentment to all British tars.

_VICTORY._